Perhaps it's just a byproduct of my east coast upbringing. If we did this as kids, and my Dad got wind of it? We would have been strictly reprimanded. Perhaps...I'm just not neighborly. Maybe, beneath all my sunshiney goodness, I'm actually a mean person. Maybe...just maybe. Still, I must say that I don't understand asking people if you can borrow bizarre food/condiment items. Are you planning on replacing it? I mean...really? Are you going to come to my house with a cup of sugar? An egg? A spoonful of relish? If so...here's a tally of the items I'd like to have returned to me:
- the two pickles (not only was I stunned at the request, I was stunned I actually had them)
- the three eggs
- the pancake syrup (whatever quantity you used)
- a new cookie tray (to replace the one you borrowed and ruined)
- the stick of butter
- the mustard
- the cup of sugar
- the three bandaids
- the rubbing alcohol (???)
- the double a batteries
*thinks*
Perhaps part of the problem is...It annoys me, and yet I always say, "yes?"
I'm about to become RPM...aka, the Woman Who Doesn't Keep ANYTHING in Her House. Let me just add that we literally live around the corner from the supermarket. And I don't mean like..."Texas" 'round the corner or up the road. Literally...it's around the corner.
Bigger question is...when am I ever going to feel entitled to say, "No." And not think I've just done something incredibly wrong?
Sunday addendum:
*knock, knock, knock*
RPM answers the door.
Neighbor: Hey, can we borrow a movie?
RPM: what?
Neighbor: can we borrow a movie to watch?
RPM: *stares*
Neighbor: *blushes* We're bored.
RPM: *blinks*
Neighbor: Want me to come back another time?
RPM: *cocks head*
Neighbor: Does this mean, no?
RPM: *stares*
- How long have you been blogging?
- Do you remember what first got you into blogging?
- Have you ever met anyone in person from blogging, internet dating...etc?
- Do you blog everyday, or just once in a while?
- Show us something blog worthy.
I have been blogging since October 1st, 2004. That's when RPM was born (on blogger). It's been a friendly addiction since then of daily (mostly) rambles. My sister had been at it for awhile in a few different places, Livejournal and some other more small, eclectic sites, but the catalyst for my beginning was my friend, Eric.
Eric began his blog shortly after being diagnosed with testicular cancer in August of 2004. We worked together for five years at a recruitment advertising agency in Center City Philadelphia for about five years before he left for other professional pursuits. We kept in touch, and I learned of his cancer possibly two years after he left the agency. Eric decided to use blogging as his means to keep his friends, and anyone else that might be curious, updated on his condition. But also, let people look through a window of his soul. And so his blogging history began.
At the time I began blogging, I was heavily immersed in my love affair that began over the internet. I was trying to sort out what my next step in that experience was. We were loving over 2,500 miles of distance and I was beginning to grow anxious about where we were headed and what it all meant. Eric and I used to email back and forth about life, love and sorting it all out. There was a special kinship between us because we both grew up as chubby, awkward social nitwits with vast imaginations, agile brains and a complete inability to relate to the world around us. For some reason, his hovel felt as warm and safe as mine. And we shared many thoughts, because it was always safe to do so.
When the cancer reared its head, Eric stunned me with his balance, his wisdom and his poise. He talked about it...but it never defined him. He educated, but never became a walking martyr or billboard regarding the disease. He didn't expect you to walk around him with your head hung low. He expected you to talk to him about the same stuff you always brought to a casual conversation with him. His humor, his amazing way of putting things in perspective, remained. He kept his eye on me, peeking in to remind me that there was a world outside my hovel, waiting for me to introduce myself. He shoved me to pursue Austin, even though I had no idea what was to come. He inspired me not to waste on moment and to explore every event, every moment with depth and courage. To find the sweetness in the darkest sorrows, because it's always hiding somewhere. And when he began blogging, he prodded me to blog, also.
"What will I write about?"
"Whatever you think about. Whatever you want to."
I shrunk into my space a little deeper. "No one will want to hear what I have to say."
"The world, has been waiting to hear what you have to say. Whether that world is a million people...or two. You write all the time. How about turning a little light on it."
I thought I had to have something significant...like cancer...to talk about. As I read Eric's blogs, I found that his most memorable posts...rarely touched on the cancer. Then I realized his point. Everything is relevant. To someone. For some reason. Who are we to discard random thoughts as forgettable?
Eric passed away on March 19th, 2005. He was thirty-three years old. He possessed a wisdom that I still can only dream of. A tenderness that still melts away any cruelty this world has to offer. He was the person you regarded with great frustration and asked, "why HIM? Of all the people in the world." He was a teacher, a husband, a sage, a comic and a friend. And I remember him and carry him with me, always. I blog, because he inspired it. And those of us who knew him, know the best way to remember him, is to honor the gifts he felt each of us possessed.
What's blogworthy?
Eric Chesna. One of the blogworthiest topics I'll ever know.
My will is only surpassed by my addiction to incompliance.
I might also be the most impatiently patient person alive. All the clay in Texas won't remedy that, but at least it keeps the blood pressure normal.
I was chatting with a friend today, and I mentioned how much I adore people who know how to respond to my temper tantrums expressions of angst. I can go from 0 to 70 in a heartbeat. I call that passion. Others call it mania. Potayto, potahto. Whatever you call it, while it evolves with age I'm pretty sure it's not going to go away.
My Ego tells me that everything I say, think, do, choose and express is right. Dead on, balls accurate. Anyone who disagrees with that is simply out to destroy me.
My spirit tells me I might want to chill the hell out and stop trying to orchestrate every little thing that happens in and around me. But somehow...when I'm presented with a situation, my Ego is the first one to leap up and scream:
THIS IS AN OUTRAGE!!!!
Slowly but surely, I'm learning to harness that rip roaring ego of mine. I tenderly assure it that the world is not out to rob me of my little piece of happiness and that all good things happen in their own time. And then I whip it senseless and stuff it into a box while it's dazed and confused. No one ever accused me of playing fair.
Until I manage to peacefully remain in this state of zen-like tranquility and spiritual enlightenment...
Don't hold my expressions of angst against me. And for God's sake...don't tell me what I'm doing is wrong. Because unlike Mecca, I sometimes bite.
I assume that my beliefs are correct and that all roads will end 'zactly where I want. But my impatient patience and ego are going to stand up occasionally and roar, "Are we effin THERE YET?"
I will endure tough times, but not without my share of bitching.
The wise person won't encourage the winds.
Too much pressure can turn a masterpiece into a mess.
Pottery is as much a spiritual hobby as it is a physical one. It's about achieving the perfect balance. Just enough pressure, just enough logic and the perfect amount of creativity. Each piece yields to the potter's touch. One of the challenges that either makes people fall in love with this craft or run from it, is the ability to "feel."
From welding the clay on a flat table, to centering a mound in the middle of the wheel and finally to shaping it into the desired object is all about form and feel. Form = structure. I love structure because that's just another way to control things. And to be honest, when I control all of the subtle elements, I feel immense relief. I control the element of surprise, the success or the failure. Any way you slice it, I'll know what's coming - because I created it.
What a ridiculous notion that turned out to be.
It's the "feel" that makes or breaks the entire project. Form and feel. Just another yin and yang. One is no good without the other. As spiritual and intuitive as I am, I find I'm still generally uneasy about relying on "feel" to tell me where I am in the process.
The first time I tried to center a mound of clay on the wheel, I strained. I understood the form, but I kept asking if my clay was centered. I had to trust my instructors assessment because I was unwilling to trust my own. I didn't know what I was looking for. That's the way I justified the constant harassment. Each time, before she'd put her hands on the clay she'd ask, "How does it feel?"
I would shrug. It felt like...clay. Wet, slippery...bumpy.
"Close your eyes."
I clasped my hands around the clay and closed my eyes. She told me to "feel" the clay. Did it bump? Did it resist? Was it wobbling? I was so preoccupied with "looking" to see if it was centered, I missed the assurance that "feeling" gave me. I haven't had a problem with centering since.
With each class I learn something different about pottery, but mostly about how the attributes of my personality make it easier, or more difficult. When I come into the studio from a hard week, I tend to want to make wheel throwing..."logical." I am in a rush. I am hasty. I want this clay to mold itself into something desirable quickly and easily. Pottery doesn't work that way. And actually, neither does life. You can want all you want. But if you're hasty, rushed and not willing to "feel" your way through some of the bumps...you are going to wind up with a lopsided, uneven and disappointing work of art. Still art...just not the piece you were intending. You'll either discard it, or turn it into something else.
In so many ways, my patience (or lack thereof) impacts my ability to create. My ego begins to whisper that I've mastered things I may still need to practice. It whispers that I'm more advanced then I truly am, and suddenly, I'm making a mess of things I seemed to do so easily just days earlier. Suddenly, my clay and I are off center.
I started making a mess today, in all my haste to be somewhere too soon. Once I realized where my stubborn pressure was making a mess of things, I backed off. I took a deep breath and leaned away from the wheel. I closed my eyes and just let my fingers skim the surface of the clay."Doing nothing" and "feeling everything." I felt the bumps. I thought about what I did to put them there. I reflected on what I've learned thus far to recover. I slowed down my wheel.
And then...gradually...I turned a mess back into a masterpiece.
(And then I quit while I was ahead)
As for the endeavor itself, I am four classes in and already signing up for the next series. I'm day dreaming about a studio in my home. I'm planning on buying my own wheel just after the new year. I've thrown seven pieces thus far, of varying size and shape. They are all at varying stages of trimming, polishing, firing and glazing. And I can safely confirm for you that this hobby for me is definitely here to stay.
From the WTF files....
Glad to know I'm not the only one willing to do absolutely anything other than the stuff that must be completed.
You know Mercury Retrograde has been kicking my ass this week. More than technical glitches and financial curve balls, I've just felt heavy beneath a veil of ominous, foreboding nothingness. And damn if those comfort foods aren't chasing me everywhere.
Everyone I know and love is going through something right now. A great emotional hurdle. Another evolution on the journey to becoming a stronger, more defined version of self. Professionally, emotionally, socially, or physically. We're all at some crossroads that feel particularly frightening. And you know me. I love dicing that stuff up and peering into it. It's the spice of life, and nothing excites me more. At least...under normal circumstances.
But this week, I'm tired. I'm drained. I'm nearing "E." It's as if each conversation has become an energy exchange. I offer a moment's peace in exchange for the entire contents of their anxiety. And now, it's Friday and I'm up to my ears in doubt, fear, negative waves and all sorts of hoodoo. Yes. Hoodoo. It's the technical term for other folks shit.
I try to shake that off by doing something physical. Most times that helps me move the cloud. But this week that cloud feels thicker than peanut butter. And I'm tired. Each day this week, I've wakened more tired than I was when I went to sleep. Carrying that negative energy and wrapping all the contents of my life with it until nothing feels particularly promising or special, anymore.
I know that's not wise. I also know better than to think I can believe anything I'm currently feeling. I woke up this morning, again drained in spite of all I know. I fed Mecca and crawled back into bed to await the 7:45 emergency alarm clock wake up call, should emotional drain tempt me to sleep til 9am. My morning radio jockey is in mid sentence, and I'm wondering why his words sound so familiar.
He was reciting the poem, "Don't Quit." That grade school inspirational poem many of us were taught to keep us forging on. If you were a student athlete, you probably heard it before. It's hokey, like something your grandfather said to you so many times you thought you'd throw up. But you know...this morning, I felt like the radio became an Oracle. I was laying there looking for something...and the morning jockey was my hokey dalai lama.
So here goes (and stop sighing for God's sake, you need it too):
Don't Quit
When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road your trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and its turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When they might have won, had they stuck it out.
Don't give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victors cup;
And he learned too late when the night came down,
How close he was to the golden crown.
Success is failure turned inside out
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far;
So stick to the fight when your hardest hit,
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit!
- Author Anonymous
Here is a list of the fuckery I have been able to keep tabs on since Mercury retro began.
- Laptop adapter fried
- Digital phones lines getting crossed, and blanking out during calls
- Supermarket self checkout line – card payment reader shuts off and says, “lane closed”
- Misunderstanding about my most recent commission check. A thousand dollar misunderstanding about my most recent commission check.
- Complete inability to communicate current state of emotions in family drama.
- Three members of the family reporting random teary rants on otherwise, “great” days
- General
malaise reported amongst friends
- Huge
desires for chocolate (okay, perhaps I’m just a pig)
- Entire
contents of two days mail delivered to the wrong mailbox
- Livingroom fish tank has ich. And very pregnant moonfish.
- At least three people I know have had computers or software upgrades totally tank
- Inability to extract my head from my ass
And we still have two weeks of this delight. Is it just me? Judging from the snippets I'm seeing come in from twitter. I'm going to say, no.
Silence is a hungry beggar demanding sustenance. It will not go away just because you are uncomfortable with it. It couldn't care less about your embarrassment during your exuberant cocktail party with that very important client. When it appears, always at the most inopportune moments, it simply must be fed. And rarely do we give it something meaningful in our haste to shoo it away. Rather, we offer it something from the lining of our pockets. Something that upon later reflection, we wished we’d given more thought. And it is rarely presented to us again to make the appropriate amends.
Dear "Woman Who Uses a Snapshot of Her Bare Crotch as an Avatar":
While I am sure you have done this sheerly as a means of artistic expression...seeing your crotch quietly perched beside my face makes me extremely uncomfortable. Do forgive me for deleting your comment. Thank you for the lovely compliments though. I do appreciate your kindness. Just...not your crotch in my face.
Cheers,
RPM
